The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  Buddy wanted to grab hold of the rear bumper, to keep the nearly three-ton vehicle in place. But he knew he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop Mei from the consequences of her decision, couldn’t stop her from tearing them apart.

  So he didn’t move. He stood motionless in his misery, frustration, and anger. And in his helplessness.

  Mei drove the Suburban forward and made a half circle on the highway. As the SUV’s headlights shone south, he held up a hand to block the blinding light.

  The Suburban headed west, passing him and Ward, and he lowered his hand. He had a clear view as the Suburban climbed the hill. A moment later, at the hill’s crest, the red taillights grew smaller, flickered, and disappeared.

  102

  At midnight Buddy stood alone in Mei’s living room. Brick and Ward had dropped him off and left. Nobody else knew he was here. He’d gone from the hotel, through the door and the narrow hallway to the Carlyle Residences, sneaking past Schmidt, the doorman, as Schmidt had helped an older couple out of their taxi. He was alone in what had been his home but now was another place he had to leave.

  Despite the view and beautiful room, he felt an increasing pressure, like one of those sleeves a nurse uses to check your blood pressure, tightening around his entire body. He couldn’t loosen its grip. He couldn’t be with Mei because he hadn’t solved the case. And even if he solved the case, she and Ben wouldn’t return. Because his pursuers had destroyed his family.

  Obliterated his family.

  But it was worse than that. He’d lost the only two people he truly loved. Now he was completely alone, with the fleeting exception of a half brother who lived in a different world than he did.

  Just great, he thought. Just fucking great.

  He couldn’t call the police. They’d investigate him, as he was AWOL when he should have been working.

  But when he returned to the kitchen, he realized the NYPD had contacted him. Mario had left a message on his home line.

  “Where are you, Buddy? Did something happen? Hey, I checked out Sloan Richardson. She’s early twenties, from Beverly Hills. Dead daddy was a movie studio exec, moved into Grandma’s condo in the Nanjing building about a year ago. Grandma died about fourteen months ago. Did you need more on Sloan? Let me know. The chief’s on us, Buddy. I’m telling him you’re working with me, but I can’t cover for you much longer. Adios.”

  Buddy considered the source of this information. If Mario had known he was dead—or had played any part in making him dead—Mario wouldn’t bother doing Buddy favors. Plus, the information made sense to him. Girl from sunny LA moved to Manhattan. Didn’t want to be forced out of her inherited condo that had sentimental value. But was that all there was to it? Or had her stubborn refusal to leave and take the money Cromwell had surely offered been a move in a chess match he couldn’t see?

  He didn’t know.

  Buddy wouldn’t return Mario’s call. Mario might mention it in passing to the wrong person. If anyone learned he was alive, he’d be an easy-to-find target. Especially easy if his enemies were cops or people who had influence with the NYPD.

  The solution? He didn’t know of one.

  The phone in the kitchen rang. He turned quickly, went over to it, and paused. He was supposed to be dead, and dead men didn’t answer the phone.

  Can it be Mei? he thought. Did she realize she made a mistake?

  He picked up the phone and listened but didn’t answer.

  At first he didn’t know who was on the line. He heard only crying. “Ben?” he said. “Is that you?”

  A moment of quiet and then, “Yes.”

  Buddy tried to make his voice calm and casual. “Hi, Ben. How’re you doing?”

  “Buddy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you come get me?”

  Buddy wasn’t sure how to respond. He said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I want . . . I want to be with you.”

  These words raised Buddy’s spirits, but they also hurt him. He said, “Is something wrong with Mei?”

  “I want to be with you,” Ben repeated. “With you and Mei.”

  Anguish coursed through him. He wanted the same thing, but he didn’t know how to tell Ben that it was impossible. At least for now. Yet he hadn’t given up. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he began to think he could regain Mei’s hand, that he’d marry her, that the three of them would again form a family. “I’ll find a way for us to be together,” he promised. “For the rest of our lives. Things will work out. They will, Ben. I’ll resign from the force and find something else to do. All right?”

  Ben was quiet. Then he said, “Can you do it now?”

  Buddy breathed deeply, trying to control his frustration. “No, not now. I have to find out why you and Mei were taken by those men. After that, we’ll see what happens.”

  Ben’s voice rose, “But you promised! You promised we’d be together!”

  Before Buddy could respond, he heard Mei’s voice in the background and then Ben quickly whispered bye and hung up.

  Cut off, that’s how Buddy thought of it. Cut off from Mei and Ben. He became angry at Mei but realized that she’d done what she needed to do. She was protecting Ben, even at the cost of separating Ben from him.

  He was trapped. He was stuck in his life and there wasn’t an exit. He slammed his open left hand on the kitchen countertop.

  “Fuck!” he said aloud.

  He left the kitchen and walked into the living room. Pacing by the windows, he thought about his options and decided there was only one. To be with his new family, he’d give up everything else. Even the NYPD, for twenty years his reason for existence, for sanity, for pride.

  Solve the case. Quit the force. To make a living, return to his first love and first curse.

  He went over to Mei’s baby grand, sat on the bench, and played the same pieces he’d played two nights before. Für Elise. The first thirty seconds of Grieg’s concerto.

  This time, his playing was improved. His left wrist hurt—hell, his entire body hurt after being beaten and thrown from an airplane—but he had reason to hope. If he laid off his wrist for a couple of weeks, he’d recover. Maybe he’d record something again and make a little money. Or maybe he’d play in a jazz club, but not the concert stage. Definitely not that.

  Lifting his hands from the keyboard, he sat silently at the piano. The black lacquer showed his faint reflection. He could see his face’s outline but not his eyes.

  He knew he was getting stronger. He remembered that Ward had called him a hunter. Mei had said something similar. He thought they were right. He thought about his prey.

  One dirty cop, he thought. Or more than one.

  What else did he know?

  His investigation needled Erica Fischer and Jack Carlson of the EDA. It threatened Cromwell Properties, the big real estate developer.

  He’d begin there. He’d be relentless. He’d put down whomever he had to. He’d show no mercy.

  But to succeed, he couldn’t be himself. He couldn’t be Buddy Lock with the NYPD or even Buddy Lock, failed concert pianist and private citizen. He’d have to become nobody. A nobody who worked mostly at night.

  He’d become a ghost. A ghost with a gun and the freedom to use it.

  DAY 5

  103

  Ward entered the office of Stella Bannon, CEO of Cromwell Properties. “Thank you,” he said hurriedly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Of course, Ward,” Stella Bannon replied, standing from behind her modern desk, a glass top set on four legs of black steel. “We ought to see each other outside the trustees’ meetings.”

  Stella Bannon was of medium height, fanatically thin, with black hair pulled straight back from her face and clipped behind her head with a tortoiseshell barrette. She wore a tailored dress so devoid of ornament and so plain that he knew it was expensive, likely Dior. From her ears hung simple silver hoops that matched the bracelet on her right wrist.

  They met in the center of the
large office and shook hands. She motioned him to one of the four armchairs covered in bright orange leather, and they sat down.

  He kept his face expressionless as he said, “I’m sorry, Stella, but my brother, Detective Lock, couldn’t make it. I’m not sure where he is, but he’s undoubtedly working.”

  As she nodded once, he thought he noticed the beginning of a smile, quickly suppressed. He, in turn, suppressed his anger and suspicion.

  He said, “I know a little about music but nothing about real estate development. It’s Greek to me, Stella. But could you tell me about the Haddon House project? I might buy a place in the city because I’m tired of my usual suite at the Four Seasons.” He crossed his legs, revealing gray socks patterned with miniature images of the Mona Lisa.

  Stella Bannon described the amenities of Haddon House, but noted that most units were already under purchase contract. Ward widened his eyes at the description of the planned fitness facility. Stella talked about the brilliant design by Antoine Rousseau, the famous Parisian architect.

  When she paused, Ward nodded and said, “But my brother has told me you have a problem with some occupants of the present building on the site, the Nanjing building. Holdouts. They’re refusing to sell you their units, aren’t they?”

  Stella Bannon showed no frustration with the question or the situation to which he’d referred. “Your brother is mistaken,” she replied. “There are no holdouts at the Haddon House site. Zero holdouts, Ward. And even if there were, the EDA could use eminent domain to remove them.”

  Remove them, Ward thought. That’s one way of putting it.

  Ward gave her a confused expression, shaking his head as if the whole business was beyond him. He said, in a low voice, “What about Chen Sung and Lily Sung? What about Sloan Richardson?”

  Stella Bannon’s face went blank. She shook her head and said, “I don’t recognize those names.”

  Ward’s voice rose in volume. “Strange, but those are three people who were discovered over the past week. Off the coast of Long Island. The last three holdouts of the Nanjing building you’re demolishing to make way for Haddon House.”

  Stella Bannon stared at him but didn’t respond.

  Ward said, “My brother told me that one of the Sungs’ children gave him a business card from Vance McInnis, your vice president of development. May I talk with him?”

  Stella Bannon regarded him silently as she considered this request. Ward watched her carefully, but she betrayed nothing. He imagined that she was thinking of how to show she had nothing to hide. But perhaps she was thinking of something else entirely.

  A moment later she stood and pressed a button on her desk phone. She said, “Would you have Mr. McInnis come to my office, please?”

  Ward watched her as she proceeded to type on her computer keyboard while standing. She didn’t speak to him or look at him. He stared at her as she pretended he wasn’t there.

  The door to Stella Bannon’s office opened, and Vance McInnis entered. Ward saw that he was tall and lean and well built around the chest. He had a Mediterranean complexion, dark hair, and small dark eyes set deeply within his face. He was dressed in an expensive but off-the-rack blue check sport coat and wool trousers, no tie.

  Stella Bannon straightened from her keyboard and addressed McInnis. “Ward Mills”—she tilted her head at Ward—“wants to know about any holdouts from the Nanjing building. What’s the status there?”

  McInnis shrugged and turned to Ward. He had a low, clear voice. “They signed the papers—the three of them. We paid their money. I don’t know or care where they went. They caused enough trouble.”

  Ward stood and faced McInnis, who was about one inch taller than he was. Ward said, “I thought they were holdouts.”

  McInnis nodded. “They were. Until I received packages via messenger. The packages contained their signed agreements to sell, along with deeds to their units.”

  Ward said, “How . . . convenient and lucky for Cromwell Properties. Do you have the envelopes?”

  Vance McInnis’s eyes narrowed to slits as he crossed his arms. “No.”

  Stella Bannon said, “You see, Mr. Mills, we can’t help you—or your brother, if he’s . . . wherever he may be.”

  Ward gave a wan smile and shook his head. “My brother is probably on his honeymoon. Where else would he be?”

  Stella Bannon smiled back at him and said, “Indeed.”

  Ward began walking toward the door, then stopped and turned around to face Stella Bannon and Vance McInnis. He said, “Would you tell me about your corporate and personal aircraft?”

  Stella Bannon looked annoyed. “What?”

  Ward raised his chin. “You heard me.”

  Stella Bannon looked over at Vance McInnis. His expression had gone blank.

  Vance McInnis said, “How is that information relevant to Haddon House?”

  “Your planes, helicopters, whatever, will be registered with the FAA,” Ward told them. “So I can find out. Save me the trouble, would you?”

  Vance McInnis pointed to the door. “Time’s up, Mr. Mills. Time’s up.”

  Stella Bannon went past Ward and opened the door. She said, “I have another meeting. Goodbye, Ward.”

  104

  A half hour later, Ward walked into the lobby of the Carlyle Residences. Dressed in his customary Brioni suit, this one a medium gray, and handmade shoes, he greeted Schmidt, the doorman, and held up an access card for Mei’s condo.

  Ward said, “I’m going up to Buddy and Mei’s place to take care of a few things while they’re away.”

  “Sure thing.” Schmidt nodded. “I haven’t seen them in a couple days. Where’d they go?”

  Ward smiled. “Skiing, up in Vermont.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s good. Let me know if I can help.”

  Ward was carrying a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and a heavy black nylon duffel over his shoulder. The contents of the duffel clanked as he walked. He said, “Thanks, man.” He held up the coffee cup. “Now Buddy’s got me hooked on this stuff.”

  Schmidt laughed. Ward touched his good shoulder and walked into the elevator. When the elevator door closed, he thought, It’s working. If Buddy’s doorman believes he’s gone away, who could disagree?

  But then he realized the consequences of the dead men in the woods along Highway 17. When those men didn’t report in to whoever had hired them, someone would wonder what had happened.

  105

  Buddy had to play dead. He’d returned late last night from Rockridge and remained all day in the apartment. He couldn’t let anyone see or hear him or, if possible, think about him.

  In the kitchen, Ward handed Buddy the coffee and set down the large duffel bag. Buddy noticed that Ward had dressed to the nines.

  Weird choice, he thought, for surveillance.

  But he wouldn’t be critical of his brother, not today, maybe not ever.

  Buddy removed the plastic lid and took a couple of large mouthfuls of the coffee. After an Advil half an hour ago and now the coffee, he was feeling ready to continue the hunt. He took a step forward and watched as Ward unzipped the duffel bag and pulled open the sides.

  He could see clothes Ward had brought him—for the new Buddy, not the now-deceased police detective. This Buddy had independent wealth. Ward took out a pair of Tommy Bahama khakis and dark-blue cotton pants, some expensive button-down shirts and a dark-blue fleece, a black Patagonia parka with a hood, gloves, a black baseball-type cap with the Under Armour symbol stitched above the bill, and expensive-looking Persol sunglasses. Under the clothes were black shoes that appeared to be lace-up dress shoes but were more like sneakers. When Ward removed these from the bag, Buddy saw an arsenal.

  Buddy bent down. In the bag he counted one rifle, five handguns, an ankle holster, two shoulder holsters, plus an IWB holster. Carefully, Ward removed each piece and placed it on the granite countertop. With the equipment removed, Buddy again looked at the duffel and saw two sets of body armor, four boxes of amm
unition, two knives, and two sets of lockpicks. As Ward lifted these from the bag, his eyes met Buddy’s.

  Ward said, “Leave the investigation in the city to me. You should move up to my place in Greenwich. I’ll be your eyes and ears. You can tell me what to do. I’ll follow your instructions to the letter. You won’t have to leave my house.”

  Buddy felt anger, but only for a second. He knew his brother was trying to protect him. “No,” he said calmly. “I need to do it myself. I need to see and hear. I need to think right there in the moment. With the clothes you brought me, I’ll become someone else.”

  Ward eyed him warily, seemingly trying to decide whether to argue. Then he said, “Don’t shave, all right?”

  Buddy nodded.

  “And dye your hair.”

  “No.”

  Ward’s mouth twisted with frustration, then he said, “Okay. Wear these clothes I’ve brought you. Think of how Buddy looked and acted, then do something different. Not hugely different, but different enough to throw people off.” Ward pulled from his coat pocket a burner phone and several hundred dollars in cash and handed them to Buddy. He said, “Dead men don’t use credit cards or ATMs.”

  Buddy hesitated—he already owed his brother, not money, but more than he could repay—then took the phone and the money.

  In the master bedroom, he tried on the clothes Ward had brought him, with Ward standing by the window, relating his meeting that morning with Stella Bannon and Vance McInnis. He put on the dark-blue fleece over his T-shirt and slipped his set of lockpicks in the generously cut left front pocket of the dark-blue pants. Finally, he added an IWB holster at the small of his back for his Glock 19. And an ankle holster weighted with a Glock 26. Plus several spare magazines for the 19, pushed into the left side pocket of the Patagonia jacket.

  Ward said, “McInnis is a hardcore athlete. He’s in great shape. Must go to the gym. Maybe he runs or rides a bike, but he lifts weights, there’s no doubt.”

  Buddy thought about the man who’d thrown him from the plane. He turned to face Ward and asked, “What’s he look like?”